


Written in Gold

by LovelyLittleGrim



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon, Crowley POV, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, Love Confession, M/M, Realizations, Soulmates, soul marks, takes place during the end of episode 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2020-04-24 13:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19174552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLittleGrim/pseuds/LovelyLittleGrim
Summary: They’ve averted Armageddon, dodged the fiery bullet from their respective sides, and are now going to get lunch— right after Aziraphale showers off the stench of hell.Cue, Crowley barging in a little too soon and learning more than he had ever thought possible.





	Written in Gold

**Author's Note:**

> The idea is that those cool markings and physical features that Angel's have are actually soul marks that in some way correspond to a mark, or physical attribute, that their soul mate has.

Crowley stares into Aziraphale’s pleading face and sighs. “Do you really need a shower?”

“Yes,” comes Aziraphale’s immediate response. “After being down in hell I just—” he shudders, “I feel so unclean.”

Crowley nods his head at that. “Fair,” he squints at the angel even though he’s wearing his glasses. “Didn’t you have a holy water bath down there? How dirty can you actually be?”

“Well, yes, that’s true, but I did have to walk through nine circles just to get back out,” Aziraphale argues, his back straightening ever so slightly. “It was most uncomfortable.”

With a sigh, Crowley concedes the points. “Fine, fine, we’ll stop at yours before the Ritz.”

“Oh, thank—”

“What did I say about thanking me,” Crowley grumbles, his cheeks feeling warm as he stomps towards the bookshop, angel in tow just a step behind him.

“Not to, but like usual, I insist,” Aziraphale’s voice is almost smug and Crowley has to duck his head a little to hide his smile. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

* * *

 

Crowley’s bored. His fingers twitching with the need to do something, his toes tapping against the floor with the urge to pace, but he’s already walked the entire circuit of the angel’s bookshop, twice. He’s pretty sure he’ll wear a hole into the aging wood if he does it anymore.  He feels like he’s been waiting for Aziraphale to get out of the shower for ages, now. The angel had said he would be quick. What a lark.  

There’s a squeaking of pipes and then silence. Crowley jerks his attention to the door leading to the back where the bathroom and Aziraphale’s bedroom are hidden away. He taps his fingers once more against the desk he’s sitting on and then he’s up and striding through the door.

The hall leading to the rest of the building is much like the shop, littered with books and odd pictures, though most of these pictures are of Aziraphale himself. Crowley snorts at the delicate little smiles in even photograph. His angel is always so happy when Heaven isn’t calling upon him. Crowley finds himself smiling a little as the full realization hits that his angel won’t be called on for some time now. Not after Crowley had used his vessel to spit hellfire at Gabriel.

His steps become softer at the thought, less hurried and impatient. They have the time now. There’s no rush.

Crowley turns to the door to Aziraphale’s room and finds it slightly a jar. Without a thought he pushes it open and starts to step inside onto to stop, his body freezing on the threshold.

Aziraphale is naked, save for a towel wrapped ridiculously low around his hips. The fluffy, blue material a stark contrast to his pale skin. Crowley blinks rapidly, lips parting to find words, but none come to him. Aziraphale is humming happily as he stares between two shirts laid out on his bed that look the exact same, his back firmly to Crowley. He’s blissfully unaware of the demon’s eyes on him, drinking him in like a starving man.

Aziraphale bends ever so slightly, inspecting something on one of the shirts with a little hum of disapproval. Something on the angels back catches the light just so and glints. Crowley squints at it and moves just a step deeper into the room, his feet straddling the doorway now. He cocks his head to the side at the same time that Aziraphale straightens back up and his breath catches in his throat.

There’s a line down Aziraphale’s spine, and it occurs to Crowley, for the very first time that he’s never seen the Angel devoid of his clothes, not even his shirt. It’s always been prim and proper and, for the love of Satan, tartan. Crowley licks his lips and moves his eyes carefully over the mark. It starts at the nap of Aziraphale’s neck like a spade, honey gold and serpentine, it slithers over the notches of his bones, golden flakes pressed into the dimples like scales.

This is Aziraphale’s soul mark.

Crowley had assumed that it was the angel’s hair, those soft and unkempt tufts of silvery white, that marked him for his soulmate—much the way Gabriel’s lavender eyes had marked him for his. He had never asked for confirmation though, in all the six thousand years they had known one another, and they had never discussed the topic of soulmates. It was a taboo subject amongst them. Demon’s don’t have soulmates, or so Crowley had always thought up until just a few minutes ago.

The angel nods to himself, hair splashing a few loose droplets onto his skin, Crowley watches them trace along the golden line the way he wants to do with his own fingers.

It’s a snake. Aziraphale’s mark is a snake.

Since the dawn of his making, Aziraphale has borne that mark on his skin. Crowley feels like he can’t breathe as his thoughts trip and tumble over themselves. Emotions waging inside his chest, making his heart feel constricted and loose all at once. He and Aziraphale are meant to be together--destined-- and it's all right there, written in gold upon his angel's skin.

Which can only mean...

“It was always meant to happen,” he whispers, voice shaking ever so slightly.

He was always meant to fall.

That, apparently, had been part of the greater plan. The food was purposely bad in heaven, his chores had been intentionally light that day, and he was meant to be swept up along into Lucifer’s fury and fall. Crowley doesn’t know what to do, he can only stand there and stare, eyes hidden behind his glasses and fingers curled tightly around the door frame.

Does that mean he was supposed to sneak into the garden? He was supposed to tempt Eve into eating the apple. How else were he and Aziraphale ever supposed to meet? Heaven is so very vast, so very full…

God wanted this…

All of this… but why? To prove that nothing is absolutely evil? Absolutely good? What was the purpose?

“Oh, good heavens,” Aziraphale breathes out, shirt clutched up to his chest as he stares wide-eyed at Crowley after having just turned around. “Why didn’t you say something? How long were you standing there?”

“Not long,” Crowley murmurs, his eyes flicking over Aziraphale’s face.

He has to know, right? Surely, he must? Aziraphale is clever—so very, very, clever.

“Well, I’ll have you know, it’s quite rude to just stand there and stare,” Aziraphale says wagging one finger at him. “Bad manners are no excuse, demon or not.”

“Angel,” Crowley’s hand slides away from the door frame as his feet carry him further into the room.

Aziraphale blinks at the serious tone, his own hand going still in the air.

“Did you know?” Crowley asks, there’s a pleading tone to his voice. He wants Aziraphale to say no.

“Did I know what, dear?” Aziraphale asks, head tipping to the side and more droplets drip-drop onto his broad shoulders.

Crowley reaches up and takes his glasses off, his pupils widen and constrict as he adjusts to the suddenly brighter lighting. He drops the glasses carelessly to the floor. Aziraphale glances down at them and then back up into Crowley’s face, into Crowley’s serpentine eyes.

“Did you know?” Crowley repeats.

Guilt flashes over the angel’s face, the apples of his cheeks blooming a soft pink. “I, I,” he stammers, taking one small step back, his thigh hits the bed and he wobbles precariously.

Crowley reaches out to him, his long fingers wrapping around the angel’s wrist and stilling him, keeping him upright, keeping him in place. Crowley won’t let him run away. “Angel.”

“Yes, okay, I knew,” Aziraphale breathes out in a rush, looking panicked. His throat bobs as he swallows, his eyes looking everywhere but at Crowley.

“How long?” Crowley asks. “The beginning?”

“No, no,” Aziraphale shakes his head. “Nowhere near that long.”

“Then when?”

“I, well, I had my suspicions sometime around Greece.”

“Greece?” Crowley grounds out, taking a step back he releases Aziraphale’s wrist.

Aziraphale doesn’t let him move very far, his own thicker fingers catching at Crowley’s and tangling them together. He squeezes, eyes imploring Crowley to listen to him.

“It’s just, you kept popping up everywhere I was, almost like we were fated to meet over and over,” Aziraphale explains in a rush. “It was just a passing thought that we might be destined…”

He licks his lips, and looks down at their intertwined fingers, his thumb brushing over Crowley’s knuckles.

“Later, I thought it might, perhaps, be a test from God,” Aziraphale’s voice has gone quieter. “I thought she was challenging my will, my resolve to stay righteous.”

He looks back up at Crowley, their eyes meet. Pale blue, sad and apologetic.

“I… I was scared to fall, Crowley.”

The weight of those words hit Crowley squarely in the heart. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply. He can taste the angel’s scent on the air, vanilla and worn leather, the same smell of old books. “When did you know for sure?”

“It was into the first year of our looking after Warlock, when I had to go back to heaven for a routine checkup for this vessel,” Aziraphale says slowly. “Seraphael had made an offhand comment about the mark looking like a snake.”

His hand tightens around Crowley as if scared Crowley might try to run away now. “I hadn’t known for sure until right then. I promise. I was going to tell you one day, it’s just, no time ever seemed like the right time to mention it.”

Crowley’s heart feels like it’s in his throat. They could have both died and Crowley would have never known. He wants to pull away from the angel’s hold and stomp out of the room, wants to slam doors and drive away, but he can’t find the strength in himself to move. Not when Aziraphale sounds like that, sounds so gut-wrenchingly guilty. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale says quietly. “I’m sorry for keeping it from you.”

With a shake of his head, Crowley opens his eyes. Aziraphale is staring up at him, wet and vulnerable, like an abandoned puppy on the side of the road.

“Looks like I’m the one who has to give out forgiveness this time, eh, angel?” He tries for a smirk but knows by the pained look in Aziraphale’s eyes that it doesn’t turn out right.

“I would like your forgiveness, but that doesn’t mean that I deserve it.”

Crowley reaches out and touches the angel’s cheek. “I forgive you anyway, as you said, you were scared to fall, angel. I can’t blame you for that.”

He can’t blame the angel for anything. It’s impossible. The angel is too far beneath his skin, too deep in his dark little heart.

Crowley _loves_ this clever and foolish being.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says, turning his head ever so slightly so that his lips brush against the palm of Crowley’s hand. He presses a kiss there, soft and apologetic. “I was scared, but I had already fallen years before that.”

Aziraphale brings his hand up to cup Crowley’s cheek, mirroring Crowley’s actions. He brushes his fingers gently around the edge of his eye. Crowley’s breath stills in his chest at the touch, at the look of adoration and apology in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“I’m glad, my dear,” Aziraphale ‘s voice is honest and raw as he speaks, “that out of everyone in heaven and hell—in the entirety of the universe—that it’s you.”

A noise escapes Crowley’s throat, desperate and wild and doomed. His hand slides away from Aziraphale’s cheek to his neck, his fingers curling over the edge of the mark—it’s warm to the touch, holy almost in its essence—and pulls Aziraphale into him. Their lips catch on one another, soft and clumsy and perfect. The touch burns through Crowley, like holy water and hellfire, like flying and falling all over again and he loses himself to it, to Aziraphale.

He knows he's a damned creature, a being that's fallen from grace, but right here, right now, he's never felt more holy. 

* * *

Crowley decides later on, as he’s picking up his flute of champagne and holding it out for a toast, that the purpose of his fall—and everything that followed—was them.

_Him and Aziraphale._

God’s not perfect, nothing is, but some things still turn out pretty damn close.

“To the world,” he says and can tell by the way Aziraphale looks at him, that the angel knows Crowley means him.

Aziraphale smiles, soft and sweet, his voice breathy. “To the world.”

 


End file.
